


almond

by ruruka



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: future foundation canon, nyanko hour.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 07:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13336116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruruka/pseuds/ruruka
Summary: kirigiri is lonely.





	almond

She's in the midst of brushing her teeth when the front door is chattered upon.

Bristles continue their plight along her molars another two minutes. Slow. A spit, a rinse.

Pajama bottoms brush mild along hardwood. Where her palm would be cool to knob meets rather a layer pulled in preemptive haste along each wrist. The door is dragged open, arms loose to sides from short rumpled sleeves. She blinks to the guests, waits for speech she knows will come in immediacy.

It does- "Hi, Kyouko!" Wide is his smile as it is always, an optimist even en route to Cerberus, she'd say. He shifts forward his hands to show off their cardboard tray, three cups papered in labels and steam long gone from spouts. "We brought coffee."

The other half to the  _we_ ambles behind, a low slunk shadow as is his signature to enter her apartment's living room, haughty to its lived in fung shei (most would call that a mess, but she's not like most). Expected would be his cross of arms, huff from nose turned high enough to alert satellites, though he's busied by the drag at a hip. She follows the trail shoulder to fingertips wrapped tight round foreign handle.

"And, mh, something else," the first adds on, gifting cup to her. Pumpkin spice lattes taste acrid when mixed with fresh Colgate, she learns, and sets it aside the two tepid mugs on the coffee table in the same note that foreign handle is dropped, cautious as a man's to ever be.

It isn't a philosopher's life work to realize the coffees were a mere predecessor, the socks beneath the tree before the bike's wheeled in, as all three sit to dawn's end on the table in focus granted upon matters hotter. In the silent hold of them all, she flicks a lock slipped from braid back behind her shoulder. The others stare each other melted.

"Um," says one, laughing so sheepish as he does. "Well...we didn't really rehearse an introduction, or anything. But, we've been thinking about this for a long time."

"Assuming you'll hate the notion as much as I do, I'd like to let you know this was entirely Makoto's idea."

" _Byakuya,"_ meager embarrassment chides along. Attention dashes back to the spotlight. He smiles. Again. "It was, but you've just been working so hard lately-"

"So give her another thing to have no time for."

"-being a division head, and all. And you seemed, well...lonely. Especially since we've been...you know-"

"Fucking," she says. He winces into a hot flush, and the very same second half to that very same  _we_ clasps into a braggart's shrug. 

" _Busy,"_ __corrects Naegi, shaking himself freed of gauche hue. "You've seemed like you're in kind of a...funk." The explanation's gaining speed now, collecting snow as it rolls along the January frost. His hands gesture in their soft kindness to the chipping veneer about the little apartment, the tepid mugs and the papers strewn, ink blot a dark spread to the breast line of her white tee shirt. Her jaw tilts slight.

"So, um,  _heh."_ His knees creak in his drop to the floor, theatrical still in his furtive unhinging, holding to chest full in palm on his rise, all as if she hadn't the most mild clue what had been concealed inside the portable cat carrier.

And, most true, she  _hadn't,_ because she'd expected a cat, not a sweltering drive of her pulse gone manic, not the hot desire behind either eye as they drink in his delicate, delicate lift of God's finest creature by the middle. His second hand scoops beneath the kitten's bottom feet, presenting it toward its new mother as one would a- well, a newborn to its mother.

The kitten mewls. Hesitant leather captures her the same position the other had, piercing lavender meeting the scream of brisk yellow.

"She's about ten weeks old," Naegi tells her, allowing them their shared moment of quiet before unfolding the backstory. "Andou, from work, she mentioned that her cat was pregnant a few months ago, and let us pick one out when they were born. Byakuya said you'd like the calico one the best."

Alluded to, he tuts an idle note. "Andou said it was born last. Naturally the best of the litter."

It's smirk worthy, though she finds herself consumed too deeply to split ever her focus. The cat writhes in her grasp, crying shriller this time to the commotion about, and she can think only of how sweet those mounds of fur must feel upon bare touch. She thinks, too, that the mother must be a corpulent warmth of fine white satin living off whatever homemade cat food she's being spoon fed on the daily.

"What is its name?" is the only key point she's unable to deduce on sight alone. Naegi chuckles shortly.

"Well, she's yours, you get to name her," he says, so matter of fact. "We've just been calling her Kittygiri."

"A juvenile placeholder," scoffs Togami, and she wonders on each visit how he fits beneath the door frame on a horse so high.

The kitten revolves around in a close examination, sight tickling patches of blacks and tans along her soft spine, squishy sides. Memorizing. Mesmerizing. Hands draw inward to her chest, protective to death should they part from first minute's touch. Monotonous acceptance is the closest to praise she'll allow; "Kitty. I like it."

Naegi grins. Togami rolls either eye. Equal mirth twists to them both.

They've cleared within the hour's close, proclaiming in her place that she's work to do and a bond to build, and the door closes tender to a final wag of fingers chasing.

She spends a phase running comb teeth through miles of lilac, pinning back, delighting her new house guest with the wave of ribbons before they're tied, and pressing that guest to her fresh shirt's breast pocket to take to the kitchen. Water hushes over soap and mugs and dried yolk from plates off center dining table, and she peels to their dripping done the plastic gloves from her hands that protected the leather beneath. Heat wiggles to her chest's outer and inner.

When she lifts again the kitten, it is by the middle to challenge another staring match. A tail beats against her wrist. She raises fingertips to ears, nape, shoulder blades, and she'd been correct as always in her hypothesis; the feel against her skin is that of pure satin.

Kitty offers a pink tongue curled outward in a yawn.

Never has she so adored another thing to steal her time away.


End file.
